Falling for the Fake Fiance (Snowpocalypse)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  “Hey, any southern gentleman would offer.”

  “Mm hmm.” She turned toward her car, holding her breath, just wanting this moment to last a little longer.

  “Jill?” he called.

  She swung back around, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking so much like the boy next door she knew so well. It made her long to go over there and steal one last hug. “Don’t do speed dating anymore. The right guy will come along,” he said.

  Such optimistic words for such a shitty situation. “Bye, Aaron.” She nodded and opened her door, sliding in and shutting out the last of their magical twenty-four hours. She played his words over in her head as she exited the parking lot. Thankfully the roads had cleared. The right guy will come along. Too bad she didn’t have time to find Mr. Right. Not in her expedited timeframe.

  Chapter Five

  Aaron hammered a nail into the solid oak bedframe, the final touch to the latest project his dad wasn’t able to handle with his arthritis. It had flared up so badly that a few weeks ago he’d called Aaron in the middle of the night, completely panicked. The fact that his dad had never asked anything of Aaron before, mixed with the late hour, had scared the utter shit out of him. Enough so that he’d loaded his suitcase in his truck thirty minutes later and hauled ass to Charleston, taking over his father’s business for the better part of two weeks.

  “Thanks again for doing this.”

  Aaron jumped, hammering his finger instead of the piece of metal. He hadn’t realized his dad had entered the loft of his workshop.

  “Shit.” He brought his throbbing thumb to his mouth. “Dad, don’t sneak up on people.”

  His dad’s brows pulled together. “I was calling your name for a solid minute. Lost in that head of yours again?”

  Aaron had been distracted ever since he’d closed the door to Jill’s car yesterday. Hell, one night wasn’t enough. It’d been stupid to think that one time could get her out of his system. All he wanted was more. More of her nails raking down his back. More of her arching into his touch. Just the sounds that came out of her mouth could bring him to his damn knees. And there he was, transported straight back to his angst-ridden teen self. Get it together, shithead. It was a one-night stand.

  “Mrs. Michaels has a leaky faucet. She came over asking for help, and—” He raised his wrists as an explanation. They were both in braces, ones that wrapped around his thumb as well.

  “No problem. I’m just finishing up here. I’ll be over at her house in a few.” Aaron set a nail on the wood, poised to hammer it in.

  “Son?”

  He paused, looking over at his father. If this was another attempt at a heart to heart, Aaron didn’t have it in him to tactfully avoid it, not after a twelve-hour day of back-breaking labor. “Yeah, Dad.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. Missed having you around.”

  “Dad…” He trailed off, feeling the all-too-common wave of guilt that came whenever his parents talked about how it was a shame he lived so far away. He’d decided before he left D.C. that he’d hold strong in his decision to live there. His parents had thirty years’ experience to master the art of torture—aka guilt-tripping. The CIA should hire their services. Hardened criminals would fold faster than a shit poker hand. He loved them but needed to start the next chapter of his life without the weight of his past keeping him down. The family business wasn’t something that he wanted to pursue, much to the disappointment of his dad.

  “You know this is temporary. I can’t stay here.” As soon as he got the company stable and a solid offer on his father’s business, he’d be back to D.C. to start his job in private security.

  “Is that why you’re in that motel? It’s driving your mother up the wall that you’re not staying here.”

  He felt like a Grade A prick not staying under his parents’ roof. But that’s how it would start. First, it’d only be a night. Then, a few weeks. And before he knew it, he’d be the creepy thirty-year-old who had moved back in with his parents. He’d worked too hard, seen too much, for his life to backslide.

  “It’d be too much on you guys. It’s better this way.” Although, if he did stay here, maybe he could keep a better eye on Jill while he was in Charleston. Not that the woman couldn’t take care of herself.

  You should have called her. He almost had, using checking up on her radiator as an excuse. He erased that thought from his mind. Even though she’d offered to cook him dinner, he didn’t take her up on it. Because if he saw her again, he doubted he could keep up his end of the bargain for their one-night stand.

  He reached for his phone and saw he’d missed a call from his friend, Sam. He’d been in the service with Aaron and had gotten out a year prior. His roommate worked for Wynn Private Security. Before Aaron had driven down to Charleston, Sam had managed to line up a job for him. All he needed to do was meet with the supervisor and hash out the final details, and the position was his. That had been Aaron’s main assignment over in Iraq, security duty for diplomats, so this was an easy transition. Sure, he’d like to be close to his dad, but there wasn’t really much he could do with his skill set in Charleston.

  As soon as Aaron left the workshop, stepping onto the front porch, he dialed Sam’s number.

  “Hey, what’s up, man?” Sam’s voice boomed through his phone. Sam had spent the latter part of his career as a drill sergeant and had two volume settings: sleeping and yelling. They’d once gone to a movie on base. Once was all it took to realize that was a big fucking mistake.

  “Giving you a call back.”

  “How’s it going with your dad?”

  He collapsed onto the porch swing and frowned at the thought that this was more comfortable than his bed at the motel. “Not great. He’s let a lot of shit slide. Overbooked jobs. It’s a mess.” He slid a palm over his face and took a deep breath. It’d be weeks before he got the company out from being completely backlogged. With the way this week had gone, maybe months.

  “That bad?”

  He choked back a bitter laugh. It had been clear exactly what he was getting himself into when he came down to help, but even so, it seemed he was barely making a dent in what needed to be done. “Worse.”

  “Does that mean I should turn your bedroom into a gaming room?”

  “I might be fully gray by the time I see you.”

  “Women dig the salt-and-pepper look.” He paused and then added, “Colton was wondering if you had an idea of when you’d be back in town.” Colton was Sam’s business partner at the firm, which was half the reason they’d been so lax on his start date.

  “Should be wrapping up within the next couple of weeks. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Probably for the best. Colton is on this whole ‘family-oriented’ kick. He thinks people with a good ol’ ball and chain will stick around longer. He’s even tried to set me up with his wife’s friend.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still employed.” His friend might be a commitmentphobe but that didn’t stop him from bringing women back to his apartment.

  “It pays being partner. Plus, I kept my pants out of the equation with that woman. Nobody’s worth screwing with the company.”

  “Good man. And thanks again for hooking me up with this.”

  “No problem. You taking care yourself down in Charleston?”

  “Yeah, met up with my old neighbor.”

  “Jill?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” During the long months in Iraq, he and Sam had talked about everything, even about hot neighbors. Sam was the only other person he trusted with that information.

  “She still blowing you off like she did in high school?”

  “No.” He paused, wondering how much to tell his buddy. He decided on bare minimum, since he liked to keep those thoughts of Jill’s curves beneath his hands, the way she tightened around his cock, all to himself. “We caught up. Had a few drinks.”

  Sam’s low chuckle rumbled through t
he phone. “Good for you. You deserve to have some fun.”

  “Hope you’re not running yourself into the ground now that I’m gone.” Sam had helped build the private security firm brick by brick. If he used even half the intensity he had when he was in the service, the man hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night since Aaron moved in.

  “I’m getting by. Anyway, need to go. I’m meeting with a potential new client. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “No problem.” And with that, he hung up.

  Aaron stood from the porch swing and made his way to Mrs. Michael’s house. The sleepy coastal neighborhood was devoid of sound, like it was holding its breath. Like it knew what Aaron and Jill had done, and he was about to pay the price. The silence made him miss the hustle and bustle, his fast-paced life in the military. He’d thought he wanted out, to get away from all the stress, but it seemed that peace and quiet left too much time for his active imagination, and too much time to think about a certain brunette who turned his world upside down.

  A week. It had been seven full days, and Jill had yet to expunge thoughts of Aaron from her mind. He was ingrained in there, much like when she saw spots in her vision if she caught a glimpse of the sun’s glare—except thoughts of him hadn’t faded. When she wasn’t reading the complete Ramona set with Emily, or chauffeuring her to all the activities at Brighton Prep, her thoughts drifted to that hotel room. To his warm fingers tracing down her spine. To her fingers digging into the bedspread as she begged for him to go harder. She cleared her throat and wrung the water from her dish towel into the sink, tossing it onto the counter with a thwap.

  He’d never taken her up on her offer to cook him dinner, which didn’t surprise her, since they had agreed to the whole one-night stand thing, but that didn’t stop Jill from secretly wanting a repeat. Triple overtime would have been preferable. But she was back to real life and mom duty. Fantasy-land would have to stay just that.

  She braced her hands on the kitchen counter, waiting for Emily to change out of her dance clothes so they could head out to Sunday night dinner at her mama’s house. Her fingers itched to grab her phone and do some social media sleuthing, but she’d managed to avoid sinking to cyberstalking for an entire week. She could handle another few minutes. What was she expecting to see if she looked at his profile, anyway? There’d be no heart emoji or proclamations that she’d rocked him like an AC/DC song.

  You are above this. Plus, Mia and Kate would no doubt have hypervigilance to every damn detail of everyone else’s life well covered. She probably wouldn’t even have to say anything for them to divulge their dark-web-level information.

  She busied herself with tidying up the countertop, unfolding a piece of paper she found, and groaned. Emily’s class was going on a field trip to Washington D.C. Seriously, wasn’t first grade too young to be taking an overnight trip? Apparently not. Oh, how she missed the days of Emily’s other school, one that only asked that she participate in a bake sale once a year. That ended quickly when her daughter was sent to the principal’s office for being disruptive. Turned out that Jill’s spawn was really a mini Doogie Howser and she was not being challenged enough in her normal classroom.

  Jill looked at the letter again and sighed. There was one too many zeroes in there. On top of that, Emily had just joined the band, which for that fee should at least include a complementary pair of ear plugs for the assault to her eardrums with that dreadful recorder, aka instrument fashioned by the hands of Satan.

  She glanced down at the field trip form again and sighed. Damn Grammy’s will and that stupid addendum. That money would really help get her credit out of the shitter.

  This is why you should have never trusted a man with your credit card. Particularly a certain one who took it to the ATM, drove to the nearest casino, and went to town at the slot machines while she was in labor. Her credit score was still hemorrhaging years later.

  “Mommy, are we ready for Mimi’s house?” Emily came down the stairs two at a time, and she was dressed in all pink, including a pink tutu over her pants. She looked pretty darn cute with the matching boots, like a little fiery ball of Pepto-Bismol.

  Jill tucked the bill under a stack of papers and turned to her daughter. Those innocent brown eyes looked up at her. She’d do anything for her daughter if it meant her happiness. That smile and her kindness could melt the Grinch’s heart. “Yes, sweetie.”

  “Is Uncle Gage going to be there tonight?”

  “No, he’s still in California.”

  Her face fell. “Oh.” Jill’s brother was her daughter’s moon and stars. She may not have a daddy, but her uncle was a solid, decent man who was a good model for how a man should treat people.

  “I know. I miss him, too, sweetie. He’ll be there next weekend, though.”

  Her face pulled into an instant grin. “Can we Skype him later?” she asked, bouncing on her toes. Jill wished she had an iota of her daughter’s energy. To achieve that, she’d need at least twelve more cups of coffee and might attain cardiac arrest before enjoying the perks.

  “Sure. We can do it at Mimi’s.”

  Emily looked at her, eyes full of concern, and said, “Just don’t let Mimi hold the phone. She always hits buttons.”

  Jill suppressed a smile. Her mother’s techno-inability shouldn’t surprise her, and yet, it seemed to be getting worse with time. Although, she did love that her mom started her texts with This is your mother. Every. Single. Time.

  “Can I bring my DS?”

  Jill bit her lip, contemplating. Okay, sue her. Emily played a few games on her handheld, but sometimes Jill just needed a little silence in the house. If Jill’s brain was fully intact after all the Rocko’s Modern Life she watched as a kid, she doubted the Shopkins game would cause permanent scarring to her daughter. “I think you can manage three hours at your grandma’s without technology.”

  Then again, Jill couldn’t last thirty minutes without wanting to bang her head on the dining room table, so maybe she should cut the kid a break. She looked over at Emily again, and those big, brown eyes with a look that put Puss in Boots to shame. Nah. If Jill had to suffer, she was at least going to have a companion. “Nope.”

  And just like that, her innocent baby girl morphed from seven to thirteen and executed an eye roll of epic proportions. “Fine.” She at least knew better than to argue with her. Passive aggressive gestures didn’t apply.

  She was about to call her daughter out on it, but sighed. Pick your battles. And dammit, she was too tired to fight the Battle of Attitudesburg right now. Instead, she grabbed her purse, gave her daughter a playful tug on her braid, and they both made their way out the door.

  They drove across town into the gated community where Jill had spent the first eighteen years of her life. Emily was singing along to Journey in the backseat. Another parenting win in the books.

  She pulled into the U-shaped driveway, and her lip instinctively curled as she eyed the pillars and the wrap-around porch. It wasn’t that she resented her mama or her house, but every time she looked at it, it reminded her of all the years her parents tried to get her to be something she wasn’t. She’d never be a lady, at least not in the sense that her mama had tried to imbue in her.

  Jill cut the engine, and Emily unbuckled from her booster seat and bounded toward the house. Another Sunday night. Another four hours of digging her nails into her palms and biting her tongue. Not that she didn’t love her mother, but she needed to take her in small doses. Microscopic ones.

  She was still contemplating driving away and leaving her daughter there when her mother rapped a knuckle on her window. Jill rolled the window down and peered at Deborah Michaels, self-professed expert on all things Jill Michaels, nosiest person on the planet, and maker of the best cornbread on this side of the Mississippi.

  “Are you going to come in or sit in the car?” She crossed her arms and drummed her French-manicured nails along her cashmere-clad biceps. Her wedding ring remained in
place, even though Jill’s father had long since passed.

  “I didn’t know I had a choice. I mean if you’re offering…” She grabbed for her keys, playing at starting the ignition again.

  “Jillian Jane,” her mother warned.

  Okay, so she wouldn’t have actually left, but it might have been worth it to elicit the eye-twitch from her mother.

  “Don’t worry. I was just looking for my purse.”

  “You mean the one that’s sitting next to you in the passenger seat?”

  “Ah, yes. That one.” Fine. Jill considered herself a little bit of a tool for messing with her mama, but she figured that if she was going to be subjected to more talk about Grammy’s will the rest of the evening, she’d get in a little teasing beforehand.

  “Well, then, I guess you’re all set.” Her mother pulled open the car door and motioned for her to get out.

  Jill shook her head and smiled then grabbed the keys and unbuckled her seat belt, grumbling under her breath. At twenty-nine, she’d like to think she was the epitome of class and dignity, and in most aspects she was, except for when her mother pushed her hot buttons. She had a feeling she was long overdue for an epic button-pushing-fest.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. I made your favorite tonight—she-crab soup.”

  “Well, why didn’t you start with that?” She could never pass up a bowl. Though it was probably a tactic to lower her defenses and then go in for the kill about Grammy’s will.

  Her mama rolled her eyes. Now she saw where Emily got it from. Maybe it was genetic.

  Jill kicked the car door shut and joined her mother on the walkway, freshly manicured grass and rose bushes lining the path. Even in a gated community, most people weren’t able to keep up a lush lawn year-round, but Deborah Michaels wouldn’t be caught dead with brown spots on her lawn, water conservation be damned.

  They hadn’t even made it to the front door when her mother started in. “Have you given any more thought to Grammy’s will?”

  They both walked up the white wooden steps of the porch and through the cheery red doorway. Emily was already walking around with her mother’s cat, Chaucer. The name said it all. The cat was an epic, pretentious douche to pretty much everyone besides her mama and Emily. The cat had to be at least sixteen by now and was mean as nails, except it let Emily carry it around like a baby. Anyone else would lose an eye.